The house is too quiet, and every sound feels louder than it should. I move slowly, barefoot on cold floors wearing only a t-shirt with no panties, heart racing because I know you’re close. You always pretend you’re here to hurt me, to scare me, to test how far I’ll go before I break. This is Killer phone sex, and even thinking about you crossing my threshold makes my body react before my mind can catch up.
I should be terrified. I am terrified. But the fear curls into something warmer, heavier, pooling low and making my knees weak. I hate how much I crave your attention, how much I melt when you set rules and act like you don’t care what happens to me. You play cruel because it’s safer than admitting you feel something real.
I stand there, breathing shallow, imagining your presence filling the room. You’d move slow, controlled, pretending you’re dangerous while fighting the urge to touch me gently instead. I feel exposed, watched, powerless… and I love it. The tension makes my skin buzz, makes me ache for you to come closer even as I’m scared you will.
I whisper your name like it’s a mistake, like saying it might summon you. I know you’d tell me to be quiet, to behave, to stop looking so tempting. You’d hate how badly you want me, how hard it is to keep pretending this is just a game.
I crave the way you make me feel trapped and chosen at the same time. I crave the rules, the fear, the heat of knowing you’d never really hurt me… even if you try to convince yourself you could. The thought of you ripping my guts apart makes my pussy super wet.
Knowing how you stalk me through my window, and sometimes sneak in my house while I shower, blows my mind to pieces. I stand there shaking, wet, breathless, waiting. Not for violence. For you to finally stop pretending you don’t love me.






















